THE CATACOMBS, ABARRACH

FOLLOWING ALFRED’S first encounter with Haplo on Arianus, the Sartan took pains to study the Patryns, the ancient enemy. The early Sartan were meticulous record keepers, and Alfred delved into the mass of histories and treatises kept in the record vaults in the mausoleum beneath Drevlin. He searched particularly for information on the Patryns themselves and their concepts of magic. He found little, the Patryns having been wary of revealing their secrets to their enemies. But one text struck him particularly, and it came now to his mind.

It had been written, not by a Sartan, but by an elven wizardess, who had formed a romantic liaison (brief and volatile) with a Patryn.

The concept of the circle is the key to the understanding of Patryn magic. The circle rules not only the runes they tattoo upon their bodies and how those runes are structured, but it also extends into every facet of their lives—the relationship between the mind and body, relationships between two people, relationships with the community. The rupture of the circle, whether it be injury to the body, the destruction of a relationship, or rupture in the community, is to be avoided at all costs.

The Sartan and others who have encountered the Patryns and are familiar with their harsh, cruel, and dictatorial personalities are continually amazed at the strong loyalty these people feel for their own kind. (And only their own kind!) To those who understand the concept of the circle, however, such loyalty is not surprising. The circle preserves the strength of their community by cutting the community off from those the

Patryns consider beneath them. [There followed irrelevant material concerning the wizardess and her failed love affair.] Any illness or injury that strikes down a Patryn is seen to have broken the circle established between body and mind. In healing practices among the Patryns, the most important factor is to reestablish the circle. This may be done by the wounded or sick person himself or it may be done by another Patryn. A Sartan who understood the concept might possibly be able to perform the same function, but it is highly doubtful 1: if the Patryn would permit it and 2: if even a Sartan would be inclined to exhibit such mercy and compassion for an enemy who would a turn around and slaughter him without compunction.

The mensch wizardess had not had much use for either Patryns or Sartan. Alfred, on originally reading the text, was somewhat indignant at the woman’s tone, feeling sure his people were being unfairly maligned. Now, he wasn’t so certain.

Mercy and compassion ... to an enemy who would show you none himself. He had read the words lightly, glibly, without thinking about them. Now he didn’t have time to think about the question, but it occurred to him that somewhere in that sentence was the answer.

The circle of Haplo’s being was broken, shattered. Poison, Alfred guessed, noting the black substance on the lips, the swollen tongue, the evidence around him that the man had suffered terrible sickness.

“I must mend the circle, then I can mend the man.”

Alfred took hold of Haplo’s rune-tattooed hands—the Patryn’s left hand held in the Sartan’s right, the Sartan’s right hand holding the Patryn’s left. The circle was formed. Alfred closed his eyes, shutting out every sound around him, banishing the knowledge that more guards were coming, that they were still in deadly peril. Softly, he began to sing the runes.

Warmth surged through him, blood pulsed strongly in his body, life welled up inside him. The runes carried the life from his heart and head to his left arm and his left hand and he sensed it passing through his hand to Haplo’s hand. The chill skin of the dying man grew warm to the touch. He heard, or thought he heard, the man’s breathing grow stronger.

Patryns have the ability to block Sartan spells, to obviate their power. Alfred was truly afraid, at first, that Haplo might do just that.

But he was either too weak to tear apart the weaving of the runes Alfred spun around him, or the urge to survive was too strong.

Haplo was growing better, but, suddenly, Alfred himself was gripped with pain. The poison entered his system, flowing from the Patryn to the Sartan, stabbing at his insides with knives of flame. Alfred gasped and moaned and doubled over, nausea twisting bowels and stomach, seeming likely to tear him apart.

An enemy who would turn around and slaughter him without compunction,

A horrifying suspicion came over Alfred. Haplo was killing him! The Patryn cared nothing about his own life, he would die and use this opportunity to take his enemy with him.

The suspicion vanished in an instant. Haplo’s hands, growing warmer and stronger, clasped the Sartan’s more tightly, giving what life and strength he had to give back to Alfred. The circle between the two was truly forged, truly complete.

And Alfred knew, with a feeling of overwhelming sadness, that Haplo would never forgive him.

“Stop! No! What are you doing?” Someone was yelling in panic.

Alfred came back to his surroundings, to their peril, with a jolt. Haplo sat upright and, although he was pale and shivering, he was breathing normally, his eyes were clear, their gaze fixed on Alfred with grim enmity.

Haplo broke the circle, jerking his hands from Alfred’s grip.

“Are ... are you all right?” Alfred asked, peering at Haplo anxiously.

“Leave me alone!” Haplo snarled. He attempted to stand, fell back.

Alfred stretched forth a solicitous hand, Haplo shoved him away roughly.

“I said leave me alone!”

Gritting his teeth, he leaned against the stone bed and pulled himself up off the floor. He was about to attempt to stand, when he glanced out the cell, over Alfred’s shoulder. The Patryn’s eyes narrowed, his body tensed.

Becoming aware of the panicked shouting behind him, Alfred swung around hastily. The preserver was yelling, but he was yelling at the duke, not at Alfred.

“You’re insane! You can’t do such a thing! It is against all the laws! Stop it, you fool!”

Jonathan was singing the runes working the magic on the body of his dead wife.

“You don’t know what you are doing!”

The preserver lunged at Jonathan, attempted to drag him away from the corpse. Alfred heard the preserver add something about a “lazar,” but the Sartan didn’t understand the incoherent shout.

Jonathan flung the preserver off him with a strength born of grief, despair, and madness. The man slammed into a wall, struck his head, and crumpled to the floor. The duke paid no attention to him, paid no attention to the sounds of pounding footsteps, far away, but drawing closer. Holding the still-warm body of his wife to his breast, Jonathan continued to sing the runes, tears running down his face.

“The guards are coming,” said Haplo, his voice sharp-edged, cutting. “You’ve probably saved my life just to get me killed again. I don’t suppose you gave any thought as to how we get out of here?”

Alfred looked involuntarily back down the way they’d come, realized the sound of the pounding boots emanated from precisely the same direction. “I ... I—” he stammered.

Haplo snorted in derision, glanced grimly at the duke. “He’s too far gone to be of any help to us.” The Patryn stood up, somewhat shakily, nearly falling back on the stone bed. A furious look warned Alfred to keep his distance. Haplo regained his balance, staggered out of the cell, peered down the hallway that continued on into impenetrable darkness.

“Does it lead out of here? Or does it dead-end? If it comes to a dead end, then so do we. Or we could wander around in a maze forever. Still, it’s our—Well, hullo, boy! Where did you come from?”

The dog, seeming to materialize out of the darkness, leapt on its master with a joyous bark. Haplo bent down to fondle it. The dog wriggled and danced and nipped at his master’s ankles in a frenzy of affection.

The footsteps were nearer, but they had slowed and now Alfred could hear voices, indistinct but audible. From the fragments of conversation, it appeared that they were wary about entering the catacombs, facing the dread magic of the mysterious stranger.

Haplo patted the dog’s flanks, looked inquiringly at Alfred.

“I know what you’re going to ask me!” Alfred cried distractedly. The Sartan rose hastily, avoiding the Patryn’s gaze, and crossed the hall to where the preserver lay in a heap on the floor. He knelt beside the body of the comatose man. “And, no! I can’t remember the spell that I used to kill the dead. I’m trying but it’s impossible. It’s like my fainting. It’s something I can’t control!”

“Then what the hell are you doing wasting time?” Haplo demanded angrily. “We’ve got to get out of here! If we knew the way—”

The runes!” Alfred remembered, stared at the wall of the catacomb, shining in the light. He pointed a shaking hand. “The runes!”

“Yeah? So?”

“They’ll lead us out! I—Wait!”

Alfred’s fingers traced the carvings on the wall, ran over the whorls and notches and intricate designs. Touching one, he spoke the rune. The sigil beneath his fingers began to glow with a soft, radiant blue light. A rune carved beside the one he touched caught the magical fire and began to glow. Soon, one after the other, a line of runes appeared out of the darkness, running down the length of the hallway and vanishing beyond their line of vision.

“Those’ll lead us out of here?”

“Yes,” said Alfred confidently. “That is ...” He hesitated, wavering, recalling what he’d seen in the halls in levels above. His shoulders sagged. “If the sigla haven’t been destroyed or defaced ...”

Haplo grunted. “Well, at least it’s a start.” The voices were louder. “C'mon. It sounds like they’re massing the whole damn army! You go on ahead. I’ll get the prince. Knowing Baltazar, I have a feeling we may run into trouble trying to reach the ship without His Highness along.”

The preserver was knocked unconscious, but he was alive. Alfred could leave him with a clear conscience. The Sartan hurried over to the duke’s side, bent down, not certain what he could do or say to persuade the grief-stricken man to flee for a life that he must now care little about.

Alfred started to speak, stopped, sucked in a breath.

Jonathan’s magic had worked. Jera’s eyes were open, staring about her. She looked up at her husband with the warm and shining eyes of the living. He reached out to her but at that moment, her visage wavered, dissolved, and she was staring at him with the cold, vacant gaze of the dead.

“Jonathan!” her living voice moaned in pain. “What have you done?”

And there came a chill echo, as if from the grave, moaning, “What have you done?”

Horror filled Alfred, numbed him. He shrank back, bumped into Haplo, and clutched at him thankfully.

“I thought I told you to go on ahead!” the Patryn snapped. He had one hand on the prince’s arm, the cadaver moving along quite docilly. “Leave the duke, if he won’t come. He’s no use to us. What the devil’s the matter with you now? I swear—”

Haplo’s eyes shifted, his voice trailed off. The Patryn’s jaw sagged.

Jonathan was on his feet, helping his wife to stand. The arrow was lodged in her breast, the front of her robes were stained with her life’s blood. That much of her image remained fixed and solid in their minds. But her face ...

“Once, on Drevlin, I saw a woman who had drowned,” Alfred said softly, voice tinged with awe. “She was lying beneath the water and her eyes were open, the water stirred her hair. She looked alive! But I knew all the time that ... she wasn’t.”

No, she wasn’t. He remembered the ceremony he’d witnessed in the cave, remembered the phantasms, standing behind the corpses, separate and apart from the body, divided.

“Jonathan?” the voice cried again and again. “What have you done?”

And the dreadful echo, “What have you done?”

Jera’s phantasm had not had time to free itself from the body. The woman was trapped between two worlds, the world of the dead and the world of the spirit. She had become a lazar.[13]